


The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dwarves, Elves, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Summer Solstice, Thranduil's Scars, Tilda sneaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"King Thranduil leaves his heart with you every time he walks away from you, King Dragonslayer.  Take care to guard it as if it were your own in his absence."</p><p>"Believe me, Galion...it already is mine."<br/>-----<br/>Five times Bard held Thranduil in his arms, and one time he held something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Author's Note:**

> For Hathor and Willow Flickerman, who have left me kudos and comments always and who have been waiting for far too long for an update from me. <3

The first time he ever felt the weight of a head on his chest and saw platinum-blonde hair spreading out over his dark shirt, he hadn't moved for close to an hour. He wouldn't have breathed, either, if the burning in his chest hadn't risen up and not-so-politely reminded him that breath was in fact a necessity. It hadn't felt real, and somehow, he felt that if he moved, he would shatter whatever fragile illusion he'd managed to cast about himself. But by some miracle, the sensation didn't shatter, didn't disappear, didn't even gently fade, and instead, when he awoke the next morning, he found it still present. It made his heart leap under his ribs, and he had to say, he didn't mind the feeling of being lighter than air as he wrapped his arms around the slender yet unbreakable form in his arms and let his cheeks rest on top of the golden silk locks of hair. Thranduil was still asleep.

\-----

It became habit, then: every time they were together and able to steal a few moments of privacy, the Elvenking would slowly, gradually, drift towards him, and eventually settle against his left side, and finally allow his head to rest on his shoulder, or on his chest if he could. Sometimes, Bard would find that their bare feet would brush past each other as one of them locked their ankles together, tangling limbs and fingers as they got comfortable. It just sort of happened. Neither of them planned for it or asked for it. Somehow, it just...happened. But it happened every time, even if the breathlessness ceased to plague him after several instances and the weight of another body pressed against his no longer felt so foreign and strange. He vowed never to grow too accustomed to the feeling, because complacency bred greed and taking things for granted. He would never, ever allow himself to take this beauty for granted. Never.

\-----

Bard would never forget the first time he'd seen the stony mask that Thranduil always wore fall away and reveal his true emotions.

It was after the battle, when they had both been too exhausted to continue with rescue and cleanup and decided that they were no use to their people keeled over dead in the middle of the field. As much as it pained them to leave the field before every inch had been scoured for survivors, they would be of no worth if they were so sleep-deprived they were seeing things, dead on their feet and battered and worn. So they had retired to Thranduil's quarters, due to Thranduil actually having quarters, cleaned up as best they could, and fallen into bed tangled in each other's arms. Thranduil had seemed overeager for the contact, grasping tightly at him like he would fall right off the face of the earth if he dared let go. Bard didn't press. He knew if he remained quiet and open long enough, it would all come tumbling out.

"My son...he will not return with me."

And sure enough, the entire thing came pouring out in pained waves, the whole story: how Legolas would go north instead, Tauriel with him, and they would spend years and years and years traveling. Contact would be brief and unreliable at best, nonexistent at worst. They were both angry with him over Tauriel's banishment, but as a king, how else could he punish such frequent, flagrant defiance? It had been difficult, so very difficult, for him to issue the edict, but what other choice did he have? Legolas's heart could not belong to her anyway, so it was better if she was allowed to live out her life in peace away from all of this. They were falling apart anyway.

And by the time the elf was finished his face was twisted in an agonized, silent scream, mostly buried in his chest, and Bard felt a horrific tearing, ripping, pulling sensation right underneath where Thranduil had laid his head. This excruciating, nauseating, anguish could not possibly be bearable-and if this was what he felt when he beheld Thranduil in such pain, what did Thranduil feel when his only son had told him he was leaving? Thranduil had nothing and no one left-his wife dead, his parents dead, his son fleeing, the woman he raised and sheltered and protected and loved all these years raising her weapon to him over a dwarf affair that was brief and doomed from the beginning, all of his subjects dead, wounded, or recovering from a battle they never should have fought...Thranduil was alone, painfully so.

But he wasn't, Bard realized. He would never be alone as long as he still felt this weight on his chest, felt the closeness and warmth of another body, felt long fingers tangling in his clothes and limbs with the strength of steel wrapping around his body. Because as long as he felt these things, Thranduil was here with him-and he'd make sure that that never changed. A quick kiss to his forehead was all he offered, but it seemed to be enough. The pain seemed to fade, at least, its cutting edge dulled in the slightest. It might have been all he could do...but it was enough.

\-----

The one time he'd seen Thranduil's scars, it hadn't been pretty.

He hadn't even known Thranduil's body carried any sort of mark, let alone scarring that tragic. It was deep, with entire chunks of flesh missing in places, scooped out as if dug away with metal and then the insides scorched. Pink flesh, bearing no skin in places; ropy scarring that shone pink and tan against beautiful, pristine white skin in others; stringy tendons and ligaments exposed here and there; and finally, the cloudiness across the eye that suggested loss of use. The damage itself ranged from Thranduil's strong jaw all the way up to his temple, covering nearly the entire left side of his face. Bard found himself wondering his hair still grew there, for surely, the skin of his scalp was damaged, too. It looked as if Thranduil had walked through a fire and lived. The picture was horrifying, for sure, but Bard could not bring himself to be repulsed. Not when he thought of the pain Thranduil must endure on a daily basis to live with this grievous injury.

When Thranduil woke up moments later, the first thing he saw was the shock Bard was unable to mask in time. And then he realized, and the only pair of words Bard could summon to describe him then was cripplingly ashamed. Thranduil looked like Bard had just found out some terrible secret, indicative of an indiscretion of his, something that had been under his control that he had neglected to attend to. Something he bore fault for. And then a ripple and a shiver came over his form, and the scarring was gone-but Thranduil still did not raise his eyes. It occurred to Bard then the vanity of the elves, being lauded as the most beautiful and graceful of all creatures, bearing great pride in never taking an injury and being able to heal any that they did take.

Once again, all it took was that single kiss, and somehow, all the doubts were washed away.

\-----

Sigrid and Bain were old enough to understand silently, and to be respectful and tactful when Thranduil and Bard were together and needed a few moments. Tilda was at the age where her curiosity was at war with her desire to understand, and being so prone to asking questions, she tended not to suffer curiosity's grip too long. Unable to put the pieces together on her own, too young to make the leap but too old to ignore it, she finally resorted to sneaking around hoping to catch a mumbled piece of conversation or a glimpse of some interaction that might clue her in to what was going on. Because try as she might, not even Sigrid or Bain would tell her anything. Sigrid just told her she'd explain when she was older, with that resigned, but sympathetic smile on her face, and Bain would merely flush and mutter something about excusing himself. The time for sneaking was now.

Luckily for Tilda, her father had left the door to his study slightly ajar that evening after he and Thranduil had left the main rooms, excusing themselves to supposedly discuss the finer details of a trade agreement between their two towns. Tilda had stolen away behind them, following close enough to see but not close enough to be seen as she flitted from hiding spot to hiding spot, ducking around corners and sliding into alcoves and finally taking up position right outside the open door. Conversation flowed through the gap easily, and she could hear every word of it. Her father sounded soft, quiet, calm, and Thranduil sounded nearly distressed. She was surprised: King Thranduil had never been anything but composed and collected. She couldn't imagine him upset about anything.

"I can't!" the Elvenking was protesting, deep voice strained. "Mellon nin, I simply cannot allow it-!"

"I don't think he's asking you to allow it," Bard replied softly, somehow speaking over Thranduil. "Please, let this be what it is going to be. No more, no less."

"I could not bear it," Thranduil declared, with slightly more conviction bolstered by his confidence in his words. "I cannot take another night wondering-!"

"Shhhh, sh, sh," Bard interjected again, leaving Tilda wondering how her father could hold so much sway over Thranduil, always so imperious and commanding, as to be allowed to interrupt him twice and get away with it. Curiosity overwhelming her again, she couldn't help but creep forward and peer through the barely-open door.

Inside the room, Thranduil had sank down into Bard's chair behind his desk, looking like he'd been struck across the face. And Bard was moving towards him, taking his hands, whispering to him too softly for Tilda to catch the words, and Thranduil looked up at him with such hope in his eyes, and then Bard moved even closer and Thranduil rested his head against her father's chest, and they put their arms around each other, and...

And suddenly Tilda got the sense that she had seen something she shouldn't have, and tried to leave as quietly as possible.

\-----

The Summer Solstice had always been a night of celebration for people the world over. Elves, men, and dwarves would hold large, elaborate feasts, and everyone would spend the night eating, drinking, and mingling with their friends and neighbors under thousands of candles nestled in lanterns strung up across the rooftops and stuck on poles to serve as torches that lined the streets. People would dance the entire night away as fellow revelers played their instruments and made music, and the celebration would last long into the night, as the next day was regarded as a day of rest. But for all the fanfare the Summer Solstice often brought, the festival was even larger this year. Dale was hosting a feast for themselves, plus the dwarves and the elves. It was only right, Bard had said, that since they had all fought together, they should all dine together.

And so it came that he ate dinner with Thranduil at his right and Dain at his left, Dain getting rowdy very quickly and tottering away quite drunk halfway through the meal to dance with someone who was enjoying their mead as much as he was. Thranduil and Bard, left alone for a moment at the head of the massive table, had eaten slowly, stretching out their excuse to remain in their own little world as long as they could. No one else seemed to notice, as they were all following in the footsteps of one king or the other, with half of them taking to the docks and the streets to dance and the other half shuffling around until they found friends and then sitting and talking over their meal.

When at last the handful of people left at the tables began to drift away from the meal, Thranduil and Bard excused themselves to temporarily part to spend time among the party-goers. The time passed excruciatingly slowly, even with the little brushes of touch they managed to sneak in and the occasional cheeky comment whispered into a passing ear. Bard managed to avoid the worst of the drunks at he event by a miracle of whatever gods happened to be watching over him; he considered it another such miracle that Galion, an elf in the king's service, came over to speak with him just in time to ward off a sober-but-still-not-likable member of the town who was rapidly approaching.

"My Lord Bard," he greeted, with a low, sweeping bow.

"Master Elf," Bard returned with a short incline of his head. Although he wore it much better now, the trappings of a king still prickled oddly against his skin.

"Galion is fine," the elf protested, waving off his formalities and coming to stand at his side. No doubt the elf knew exactly where his gaze kept wandering to, as his eyes began to drift that way as well. "You should know that King Thranduil thinks very highly of you."

"I should hope so," Bard quipped, unable to help himself. Galion merely smiled, and once again cast his eyes to the bolt of silver that shone like a radiant burst of starlight in the blackened night sky, the dark throngs of people that sought to engage him. But he was untouchable, slipping away again, and Bard knew that every step he took was perfectly engineered to bring him back to his arms that much quicker.

Galion nodded then, a slow and contemplative gesture, and his lips pursed in a thin shadow of a smile. Bard wouldn't take the bait, so he opted for a different route: "He cares for you. Quite deeply."

"Now, you are the most straightforward elf I have ever had the pleasure of speaking to-"

"Elves only love once, King Dragonslayer."

It was a well-known but little-discussed fact, Thranduil and Bard; most of the time, they simply didn't talk about it, because it didn't matter. It was none of the peoples' business as long as it didn't affect the ruling of the respective kingdoms, and so it was generally left alone. Bard couldn't fathom why Galion was bringing this up now until he added in his final interjection. Suddenly, it was all too clear: this elf had served King Thranduil for centuries, perhaps even millennia, shielding him from danger and serving as a confidant and an aide. Now, he sought to protect him from a new danger: the fickle nature of Man.

"Rest assured, Galion: I am aware of his nature, and of his feelings," Bard murmured, voice softening as it took on a more somber tone, the better to respect Galion's concerns. The elf seemed satisfied at this, or perhaps simply appeased for the moment.

"He leaves his heart with you every time he walks away from you, King Dragonslayer. Take care to guard it as if it were your own in his absence."

Bard was smiling as Galion walked away, taking his leave with a quiet, "Excuse me," and a polite bow. Ah, if only Galion could know! Thranduil's heart already was Bard's, in the way that they had become close enough over the past few years to have become one. Bard would be a fool to throw away such a rare and precious gift. To allow it to become damaged was to inflict damage upon himself, because seeing Thranduil upset was the most terrible pain he could ever imagine. To have half of yourself torn away in anguish was unbearable, and it was all he could do to mend the hurt by taking his lover into his arms, letting him lay his head against his chest, and kissing him until the tension in his shoulders bled out of him completely. Only when Thranduil was happy could Bard rest easy.

"Believe me, Galion...it already is mine."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour because I needed fluff from these two and apparently decided I didn't need to sleep before work tomorrow. Five hours is enough, right? Sleep is for the weak? @_@ Anyway, hope you all enjoyed, leave me kudos and comments if you did, they always make my day. <3 Thanks!!


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